


Runaway

by MindWideShut



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Branding, Flogging, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Prompt Fill, Slavery, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-17 23:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12376314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindWideShut/pseuds/MindWideShut
Summary: After the confrontation with the seal prince and his sister, Marcus knows he must escape. But no roman can survive past the wall, and it isn't long before he is back into the vicious hands of the seal people, and at Esca's unforgiving mercy.Prompt fill for The Eagle kink meme





	Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for the livejournal Eagle kink meme: Marcus caught while escaping the seal people. Enjoy!

Marcus ran. He ran until his lungs burned and his blood pounded like thunder in his ears. He tripped along stones, slipped in the muck, and burs tore at his legs, but he never slowed his pace. He had to get away.

It was dawn now. The sun had just barely begun to rise, and the dim light twisted the already gloomy landscape into a nightmare of misshapen trees and mist filled swamps. The bitter wind nipped his skin and the cold sank into his bones. His pace had caused his weakened leg to reopen, and pain shot through his leg and back. But still he pressed on.

He crossed a shallow embankment and began making his way up a rather steep hill. Clutching at grass and stones to steady himself, he eventually made it to the top. He leaned against a tall rock, panting, and grasping his wounded leg. He whispered a curse. He would never make it to the wall the way he was. He desperately needed his horse, but it had been too risky to try and sneak the mare out. He took a moment to scan the horizon behind him, but saw no sign that anyone was approaching. Still, there was no time to stop, the village would have surely noticed his absence by now. 

He had to think of something.

Guern. 

Guern would help him, he was a roman, he had to. If he could find him. He could take shelter. He would recruit what was left of the ninth and face the seal tribe. He would find his father’s eagle. He would make it back to Rome. He would restore his family’s honor.

He would kill Esca.

The thought of his former slave sent waves of rage down his body and he stubbornly pushed himself to continue. Esca, that traitorous filthy barbarian savage. The man whose life he had saved. The man who had sworn an oath to him. Who had stood by his bedside through his sickness and his surgery. The man he had talked and sparred and hunted with. The man he had seen as his _friend _.__

A misstep down the hill sent him tumbling.

He fell hard. His face slammed against the ground and the air was knocked out of his lungs leaving him winded. Rocks and rough earth scraped his back and hands as he fell, and he landed in a rough heap at the bottom.

He sat dazed. His head was swimming and he could feel blood running from a cut on the side of his head. He touched it gently. It was painful, but fortunately, didn’t feel too deep. He looked around, trying to remember which way he and Esca had come from. The sound of rushing water reached his ears. A river! He heaved himself up with a grunt. The river would mask his sent from the hounds, and if he fallowed it, it just might lead him to Guern and his tribe. 

He fallowed the sound until he came to the edge of a tall line of trees. He carefully made his way through the thick brush until at last he came to a slope at the river’s edge. He gazed down. It was a steep drop down to the water, but luckily the current did not look to treacherous. He leaned warily against a tree, trying to decide the best way down.

Suddenly, a gust of wind rushed past his ears, and he heard it. 

It was very faint at first. So faint that Marcus wondered if he had even heard it at all. But a glance back, and his worst fears were realized. Esca, atop his white mare, being flanked by dozens of seal warriors, breached the top of the horizon.

Without hesitating, Marcus flung himself down the bank, slipping in the mud and crashing into the frigid water of the stream. The cold sent a shock through his body and his wounded leg screamed in protest. But he forced himself up, and began running for his life. He slipped along rocks and repeatedly fell under the icy water but nothing could have made him stop. 

He prayed desperately that he would be able to evade them, but a chorus of shrill cries pierced the air. The hounds had caught his scent, and they knew he was close. Trying not to panic, Marcus began frantically searching for an escape route. The entire river seemed to be enclosed by steep banks and rocky canyons, forcing Marcus to continue fleeing upstream, and hoping for a break somewhere in the steep inclines.

They were close now.

He could hear the howling of the dogs, the cries of the warriors, and the pounding of hooves as Esca rode alongside them. Marcus didn’t dare look back.

He climbed over a small dam and quickly rounded the bend; only to be met with a roaring waterfall surrounded by a tall rockface. Marcus was filled with horror as he realized he had run himself straight into a dead end. He glanced around frantically, looking for any possible means of escape. There wasn’t one. The only surface that looked even remotely passable was a steep cliff to the side of the water fall. It was wet and covered in moss, with an incline that was nearly straight up. However, the rocks were also large, and jutted out in a way that, if Marcus were to tread carefully, he just might be able to climb.

The loud splashing of water and the increasing sound of the hunting party let Marcus know that the group had made it to the river, and were likely heading his way. It was now or never. He raced over and, careful to get a firm grip, began to climb. It was slippery, and Marcus’s boots were just barely able to keep hold. Agony tore through his battered body, but he forced his way up, driven by the mad fear that coursed through his veins. The sounds of the approaching men were now even louder. If he did not hurry, they would soon be upon him. 

His panicked rush however, proved to be a fatal mistake. As he leapt for the stone above him, his foot slipped out from under him, and Marcus just barely managed to grab hold in time to prevent himself from tumbling to the water below. Clutching the edge in desperation, he tried to regain his footing. The rock was too slippery however, and despite his best efforts, the roman could not replant his feet. His arms burned with the strain of keeping his body up, and Marcus could feel his fingers beginning to slip. He silently prayed to the gods to give him strength. Just one last burst of energy to escape the nightmare that pursued him. But it seemed those prayers fell on silent ears, and a cry of despair escaped his lips as his arms finally gave out, sending Marcus plummeting into the icy water below.

He burst out of the water, choking and sputtering.

Marcus fought to regain his breath as he struggled to stand. The overwhelming sound of feet crashing through the water signaled the arrival of the men. He watched helplessly as the enraged faces of the seal people came into view. Like a pack of wolves, they raced across the river, forming a wall, and blocking off any last chance of escape. They shouted and cursed and the dogs snarled at their leads. Only when Esca’s horse broke through the ranks did they fall silent.

Esca’s glare was murderous, and Marcus found himself struggling to keep eye contact. Injured and exhausted, the roman weakly sank to his knees. 

He had been caught.

********

The journey back was torture. The rope tore into his wrists as he was dragged along behind Esca’s horse, and all along the way back, the seal men tormented him. They hit him, kicked him, and every now and then a dog would lunge just close enough to nip him on the legs. He had been given a crude bandage for his leg, but he was still in a tremendous amount of pain, and he struggled to keep up. A sudden jerk on the lead caused him to stumble, and the seal prince gave him a harsh whack on the bottom with the end of his spear.

Esca never once looked back at him.

********

The village was in sight now. Darkness had fallen, and the village was left illuminated only by torches, and a large bonfire in the center, making it look all the more sinister. Marcus felt his heart race, and his stomach twist in dread the closer they got. From the looks of it, the entire tribe had gathered to await the return of the hunting party. All around them, the voices of men, women, and children rang through the air. Some yelling in celebration, others yelling in scorn. 

They marched him hastily through the crowd. All around him, the faces of the tribe twisted into ugly sneers, and their eyes seemed to bore into him with all the hatred in the world. A sickening chill ran up his back as the direness of his situation began to fully sink in. He was a slave. He was _Esca’s_ slave. He had run away, but failed to escape, and only pain and humiliation awaited him now.

They came to the center of the village. Esca dismounted his horse, and Marcus watched as the seal chief approached and greeted him with a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. They spoke briefly, before Esca turned and spoke to the other warriors. Almost instantly, hands grabbed his arms and severed the rope attaching him to the white mare. They dragged him over to where Esca stood, and he was roughly thrown onto the ground at the man’s feet. 

Marcus grunted as his battered body hit the ground. His wrists were still bound, but he managed to push himself off the ground and onto his knees. He warily forced his head up, and met Esca’s gaze. The brigante seemed to tower above him, and he glowered down at Marcus with a look that may have withered a lesser man, but Marcus stubbornly held his gaze and sat up straight. If Esca killed him, then so be it. Even now he would die with his honor.

But Esca’s only response was to deliver a powerful blow to the side of Marcus’s face. The hit knocked him flat onto the hard ground and laughter erupted from the crowd. Esca suddenly moved aside, and Marcus was left staring up at the chieftain. The man roughly grabbed Marcus by the neck and yanked him up, forcing the roman to meet the man’s piercing eyes. 

“ _Marcus Flavius Aquila_.” The man’s nails dug harshly into the skin around his jaw as he sneered down at him.

The chief spoke to him, but the strange words were lost on him. His voice however, was slow and mocking, as though he were talking to an imbecile. One comment even prompted a chuckle from the other bystanders. Part of Marcus wished he knew what was being said. But part of him was grateful he didn’t. 

A moment of silence passed between them, before the chief roughly shoved Marcus back to the ground. He turned back towards the crowd and bellowed out an order. The crowd suddenly parted, and to Marcus’s horror, the rest of the villages slaves were brought out, and made to kneel before them, looks of terror plastered on their faces. The chief stalked towards the group, and rounded on an elderly woman in the center. Marcus recognized her as the woman who had tended to him when he'd first arrived. 

Guilt sliced through Marcus’s gut as he watched the chieftain grab her by the hair, and begin shouting in her face. His words were harsh, but she humbly kept her eyes downcast. For Marcus, it was agony to watch the kindly woman suffer, and he silently cursed himself for having jeopardized the others as well as himself. A heavy slap rang through the air, and the woman was back on the ground, her hand timidly touching the side of her face as a line of blood leaked from her nose. 

A deep rage burned through Marcus, and his jaw clenched as the chieftain turned his attention back towards him. The old man stalked over to him, and spoke once more. Marcus ignored him, and stared back in pure defiance; silently wishing a long, painful, and honor-less death upon the man. The chieftain however, seemed delighted by the roman’s anger, and a cruel smile spread across his face. Without breaking eye contact, the man called out to his son, and the seal prince stepped forward to hand his father a crude black whip. 

Marcus’ could not help the chill that creeped along his spine at the sight of the vicious thing. Unlike the roman scourge, which was a short whip consisting of a handle and three or more thin braids, this whip was a single strand of braided leather about the length of his arm and attached to a handle made of bone. While it was simple in design, it was very thick, and Marcus knew that it wouldn’t take many strokes to break his flesh. 

The chieftain smirked at him, and pressed the handle underneath Marcus’ chin, forcing his head up. He leaned down, until their faces were mere inches apart, and whispered one last mocking phrase, before turning and handing the whip to Esca. The brigante wordlessly accepted, and gestured towards a nearby post. The warriors were once again upon him, and he was roughly dragged over to the indicated spot.

They held him down, and Marcus felt a dagger slide along his back. It cut into his tunic before hands viciously ripped the fabric away, leaving him stripped from the waist up. They then tied his hands tightly around the post, and Marcus was left kneeling with his face pressed into the rough wood. 

He dared a glance over his shoulder, and saw Esca approach, whip in hand. His face was impassive, his expression almost bored, as if the whole situation was nothing more than some meaningless chore he wished to be through with. Marcus turned his head back and inwardly steeled himself. Esca could flog him. As far as anyone was concerned, it was his right to do so. But under no circumstances was Marcus about to give him, or anyone else for that matter, the satisfaction of seeing him break.

The first lash struck, and Marcus forced himself to bite back a hiss. The force of the blow seemed to shoot the pain straight into his bones, and his skin ignited in a deep, burning sensation that refused to dull. He was given no time to recover from the first blow before a second marked his back, just below the first. The second strike was followed by a third, then a fourth, and then a fifth, until Marcus was no longer able to keep count. 

He struggled to control his breathing. Pain tore at every fiber of his being, and true to his prediction, it wasn’t long before he felt the first trickle of blood down his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, and balled his fists until his knuckles went white and his nails bit into his palms. He was covered in sweat, and he could feel himself beginning to tremble, but he refused to give in. He was a proud roman, a man of honor, and no orphaned barbarian _slave_ was about to get the better of him. 

But for all his resolve, the blows never ceased. Esca seemed to be putting every last bit of strength into the lashes, and Marcus began to wonder if the brigante intended to beat him to death. His back was now soaked in blood, and marred with bruises and cuts alike. He began to feel light headed, and his vision faded in and out as memories began to assault him.

He was back home, running and tumbling through the grass. His father sat beneath the olive tree, carving a little eagle, and watching him in amusement. 

He was playing with his father, the man chasing him and tossing him about in the air, causing Marcus to shriek in delight. 

His father gave him his first sparring lesson, showing him how to stand and block, and telling him not to reach back when he punched. The lesson ended with the two engaged in a mock battle, and his father collapsed to the ground, feigning defeat. 

He sat upon his father’s lap, leaning into his chest, and listening to the man tell tales of adventures in faraway lands. Marcus gazed into the fire, dreaming of the day he too would become a brave soldier like his father.

Then, suddenly, his father was on horseback, handing him the little wooden eagle, and bidding his wife and child goodbye. A great wave of sorrow washed over him as he watched his father ride off down the road, and disappear out of sight.

“No…”

Marcus wasn’t sure if he had actually said the word, or if he had simply imagined it. He was nauseatingly weak now. Everything hurt, and every lash that fell seemed to chip away at his defenses bit by bit. He allowed his head to slump forward on the post, all he wanted to do was scream.

He was unaware the beating had stopped, until a dagger sliced through his bonds, and he landed in a heap on the muddy, blood soaked ground. He laid limp against the cold earth, both unable, and unwilling to move. The roman barely had time to catch his breath before hands yanked him off the ground and began to drag him back towards the bonfire. 

They flung him to the ground, and this time Marcus could not hold back the cry of pain that escaped his lips. He hastily attempted to roll himself off his abused back, but he was quickly pinned to the ground by the seal warriors. A fresh wave of pain struck him as dirt and stones bore into his wounds, and Marcus felt his eyes prick with unshed tears. He feebly attempted to pull himself from the men’s grasp, but stress and blood loss had taken their toll, and he was no match for their iron grips. 

Unable to fight, he lay limp, and watched as Esca walked back towards the group. Rather than stopping in front of them however, the man walked passed them, and knelt down in front of the large fire. Sadistic chuckles and sinister murmurs suddenly rippled through the tribe, and Marcus felt his fear reignite at the realization that Esca wasn’t finished with him. 

The brigante remained kneeling by the fire, and Marcus strained to see what it was he was doing. He could not however, and he hesitantly allowed his head to slump back down. He felt helpless and exposed. He was trapped, and vulnerable to whatever it was Esca had planned for him. 

Marcus silently wondered if the man intended to kill him after all. The position made him recall Guern’s horrid tales of human sacrifice, of seal men slicing through a victim’s chest and ripping out their still beating hearts. The thought sent a wave of nausea through his body, and he worried he might vomit.

Suddenly, Esca rose back up and turned towards them, and Marcus felt his blood turn to ice.

Clutched tightly in Esca’s hand, was a small dagger, the end of which was now glowing red with heat. Marcus’s fear turned to full on panic. He began to viciously thrash and fight against the men restraining him. He kicked, yanked, and twisted his body with every last ounce of strength he had left, but in the end, all he succeeded in doing was adding to the amusement of his captors. 

Esca simply stood glaring down at him. His eyes were dark, and full of malice. Flames from the fire cast long shadows that seemed to dance around Esca’s figure and illuminate his body in a sinister glow. The sight chilled Marcus to the bone. Gone was the man he had known in Calleva, and in his place, a wild beast that haunted the darkest of tales whispered among the legionaries. For the first time since that day in the arena, Marcus felt truly terrified of Esca Mac Cunoval. 

He just barely choked back a sob as Esca climbed past the seal men and straddled his hips.

“E-Esca, _Esca_ …” His words were breathy, and laced with his unspoken plea. Despite his fear, Marcus stared desperately into the man’s eyes, begging for mercy, and searching for any last sign of the man he once knew. But there was none. Because everything Esca had been was a lie.

Esca spoke to the men holding him, and their grips tightened. Marcus clamped his eyes shut, trying desperately to control his rapid breathing. Esca pushed his hand against Marcus’ chest, stretching the skin of his abdomen taunt, and positioned the tip of the blade. 

Marcus’s vision went white as searing hot pain shot through his body, and a deep, animalistic screamed wrenched itself from his throat. Esca removed the blade, and Marcus was left straining against the ground, frantically trying to suck in his breath. He was given no time to collect himself before the blade once again scorched his skin. Marcus could no longer hold back his cries.

Surgery had been excruciating. But it was nothing compared to the torturous pain he felt as Esca continued to carve into him. The blade sank deep into his skin, scorching flesh as it went, and the putrid smell was enough to make Marcus gag. All around him, faces twisted in cruel smirks and evil smiles as they lavished in his torture, and Marcus found himself praying for death.

Everything was lost. 

His father, the eagle, his honor, his freedom, and even his friend. Because whether or not Marcus would admit it, he had trusted Esca, and for the man to so quickly betray him… the pain seemed to sear itself into his very soul with every touch of the blade. 

It was all rapidly becoming too much. Marcus’s vision began to spot, and the sights and sounds began mixing together until he could no longer tell what was real, and what was imaginary. 

He heard the sounds of battle, the cries of desperate men as they fell beneath blade and spear. He saw his father, surrounded by the seal warriors, hopeless and alone. A blade plunged into the man’s chest, and the eagle fell. 

Marcus’s world sank into darkness, and his head slumped against the cold hard earth.

********

The sky was dark, and a bitter wind swept through the village. The frigid air lapped at Marcus’s skin, adding to his misery. He was sitting alone on the damp ground, and a rope was tied around his neck, leashing him to the same post he’d been flogged at, as though he were a disobedient dog. He wore no tunic; the other men having stripped him of everything save for his braccae. 

His whole body was in pain. The lash had left his back a mangled mess of deep gashes and blackened bruises, and even the slightest movement seemed to reignite the agonizing pain. His stomach was faring no better. Esca had branded him, and the deep, cauterized wound left his entire abdomen inflamed and too tender to even touch. Marcus tried not to look at it. It made his stomach sick to see it. Yet he still found his eyes wandering down to the mark. He instinctively fingered for his eagle pendant, but that was gone too. 

For three days he’d been tied there. 

In that time, he’d been given no food, and Esca only came by twice a day to give him water. Every now and then someone would taunt him, or try to land a kick as they passed by. Marcus ignored it; it didn’t matter anyway. He was a slave. Beaten, branded, broken, and forever trapped in an alien world where he was nothing and no one.

It was truly the cruelest of ironies.

Someone gruffly cleared their throat, and Marcus jerked his head up. Esca stood in front of him. Marcus could only briefly meet his eyes before looking away. The man jutted his hand out, revealing a small cup of water. He timidly took the cup, and began to take small sips, savoring the soothing relief it brought to his sore throat. Esca stood by silently, his arms crossed against his chest, as he waited patiently for Marcus to finish. The brigantes presence seemed to spark something within him, and for the first time since his flogging, Marcus dared to speak. 

“I was a fool to trust you.” 

In an instant, Esca was kneeling in front of him, their faces so close they were almost touching. His eyes blazed with a silent rage, and for a moment Marcus wondered if the man might strike him. Esca remained silent for a moment, before his voice came out in a low, deadly hiss.

“All you had to do was _obey_ , Marcus.”

He reached out and yanked the empty cup from Marcus’ grasp. And with that, he turned and stalked away, leaving Marcus alone once more.

Relieved to have the man gone, he tried to gently rest his head upon his knees, hoping for some kind of sleep, and perhaps the smallest bit of warmth. A wrong shift of his leg however, and his stomach throbbed with newly reawakened pain. He nearly screamed in bitter frustration, and despite his best efforts, his eyes went back to the ugly, disfigured word forever scarred into his flesh. Tears pricked his eyes as he was overwhelmed with feelings of loathing, self-pity, and worst of all defeat. Esca had won, and he bore the proof of his betrayal. A permanent mark, a signet of his failure, to forever remind him of what he was. 

_Slave_

**Author's Note:**

> I may do a second chapter from Esca's POV. Hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!


End file.
